


take my hand, take my whole life too

by flowersmaze



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Elio Perlman is Extra, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Internal Monologue, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, slight vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersmaze/pseuds/flowersmaze
Summary: a glimpse into the internal musings of my favorite sad horny boy Elio, during Oliver's last week at the Perlmans... or is it?(a fix-it oneshot because in my dreams Oliver never returned to America)
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	take my hand, take my whole life too

**Author's Note:**

> This book (and movie) fucked me up in the best way possible. Wrote this in 2018 but never had the courage to publish it until today, so there's that. I honestly wrote most of this in one sitting, so if it feels like a fever dream, that's because it was. Anyways, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title is from "Can't Help Falling In Love With You" by Elvis Presley.

“I want to be inside you”. This was what I’d said to Oliver when we woke up. It was still very early, the sun was yet to rise, and the room had an otherworldly glow to it, as if we were suspended in time and space. I stretched like a cat, climbing on top of him, feeling the curve of his ass under my legs, his arms holding the pillow, and heard a soft sigh leave his lips.

“You have been inside me, silly”, he replied, smiling and tilting his head, trying to look at me. It was true, I had been inside of him with my fingers, my cock. But my real, deepest desire was to make myself so small that I would be able to fit inside his mouth, slide through his throat down to his stomach and just stay there, safe, encased, like an additional organ. I wanted him to always carry me with him, wanted free access to his heart, to grab it with my bare hands, feel its pulsation, kiss it, make him realize that I needed his heart to survive, that his heart was my heart.

If I could reach into his bones, into his soul, and just live there, whisper at him from the inside of his body like his own consciousness, _see, I can fit here, you can keep me inside your body, keep me within your heart, can’t you see we were made from the same material, centuries ago, and this is merely the reunion of our souls?_ I felt feverish, massaging Oliver’s shoulders with my hands, rubbing my chest against his back. I wanted Oliver to devour me, lick my hands until they melted against his touch, drink the blood from my veins so that I could become one with him, at last. _Blood brothers._ The idea made me shiver, and I cursed myself for being so strange.

“I wish I’d met you sooner”, I said. I wanted to have been his first love, the first person to ever touch him, to ever kiss him. More than that, I wish I’d known him when he was a child, being there to kiss his bruised knees, sing him lullabies to sleep, carry him in my arms as a newborn. I didn’t know where all this was coming from, perhaps I hadn’t gotten enough sleep, or was still dreaming, after all. Oliver made me feel high. “If you want to be inside me so much, maybe you can start right now”, he smiled, thrusting his hips against the bed and making me move along.

 _Oh, Oliver, you know me so well_. How do you do this? How do you access parts of my mind even I’m not able to fully grasp? I tried to make a mental map of his body, never wanting to forget any part of him. Like some weird, twisted writer who tries to keep the memory of a long lost lover alive by immortalizing him through words, I kissed a path down Oliver’s back, his ass, his long, neverending golden legs, his marvelous feet. _But I love your feet, only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me._ Soon I would only have the memory, the ghost of him next to me, but I would always recall the exact trace from curve of his spine, how he gets goosebumps everytime I bite his earlobe, the shape of my collarbones against his back.

I kissed the inside of his thighs, parted the crevice of his buttocks and kissed his hole. Licked him softly at first, then with more force, sticking my tongue inside, trying to open him up, to put whichever parts of me I could inside of him. Oliver fluttered around my mouth, relaxing, and then my tongue slipped inside, touching a part of him that was softer than the inside of his mouth, and much warmer. I heard my name, then his own name escaping his lips when I licked and sucked and kissed, a sigh, a whisper against the bedsheets, until the murmurs became nothing but a neverending string of our names, intertwined, oliverelioliverelioliverelioliverelioliver, like a song, like a prayer.

I was so hard I almost came untouched when Oliver gasped, arching his hips off the mattress, forcing my mouth tighter around his hole, precome dripping down his cock. One more kiss and he spurted all over the bed, his chest and stomach. I immediately flipped him around, tasting, already feeling so overwhelmed and he hadn’t even touched me. “Jesus”, he said, pulling me towards his face, his uneven breath on my neck. “You’re amazing”, I barely registered his words, lost in a trance as his hand stroked me. “Look at yourself”, he pleaded, and I obeyed, saw his firm grip on my cock, my own hips rutting against him, and all I could think was _I will never be able to touch myself again without seeing your hands on me, because you are me and I am you._ That thought sent me over the edge, spilling on his leg, moaning my own name. _You are me and I am you._

As we laid on the bed, sweat cooling, I could feel Oliver’s gaze on me, but was too tired, to sad to face him back. “You know I wish we had more time, right?”, he asked. “Do I?” _,_ I replied, already hating myself for ruining the mood. He sensed something was wrong, sensed my anxiety and my premature sorrow, and was already trying to cut ties, lessen the inevitable pain that would come with his departure. “Don’t do this, please”, he pleaded, one hand massaging my wrist, and I forced myself to look at him. _Damn it, why do you have to go?_ , I thought, sadness dissolving and increasing at the same time as I stared at his perfect face. The first streams of sunshine peeked through the curtains, and I could already smell the scent of Mafalda’s strong coffee wafting around the room. I smiled at him, apologetically, and shrugged. “Let’s go, I feel like running today”.

As we got ourselves dressed, he just stared at me, brushing the hair out of his face, cleaning his chest with my discarded shirt, which I immediately picked from his hands and put again. _Let him know,_ I thought, _he ate my peach, what’s the big deal about wearing a come-stained shirt? Let him know I would forever wear him like a cloak, like a crown._ “You’re not even taking a shower?”, Oliver asked, and he tried to sound incredulous but I could see the glimmer in his eyes, the trace of something I so desperately wanted to believe was not just amusement or lust, but also hope, affection, love. “I’m gonna sweat all over again, it’s useless”, I replied, already moving towards the other room to grab my sunglasses and shoes.

We padded down the stairs quietly, trying to assess if someone other than Mafalda and Anchise was already awake, but the house seemed quiet and warm. As we walked through the hallway, I locked eyes with Mafalda for a brief moment while she mixed the contents of the _crèpe_ batter, and she smiled at me. The same smile I’d seen my mother wear the morning after Oliver and I slept together for the first time. The smile my father had been wearing ever since Oliver set foot in this house. A smile which said _I know what is going on, and though I want to protect you, I also love you too much to not allow you this happiness._ The thought made my stomach twist the whole time, as we ran down the unpaved roads, through the trees and fields. I could feel Oliver’s breath beside me, our paces matching.

-

As we were approaching the house on our way back, I stopped and plucked a peach from its tree, the branches swaying lightly from the breeze that passed. The fruit was warm from the sun, and I caught myself, once again, comparing it to his body. The bastard had managed to ruin even peaches for me. _How dare you?,_ I thought, revolted, _will I always get half hard everytime I look at a peach or apricot?_ Noticing my hesitation, Oliver looked back at me, squeezing the peach and deep inside my own thoughts, and smirked. “At least wait until we’re inside the house to start defiling the poor thing”, he joked, tugging my sleeve and moving to sit at the table, where not only my parents sat, already reading the paper, but also Marzia, eating a crèpe and looking at us with a smile on her face. As I joined them, I began to realize that perhaps I’d seen this smile before.

“Wanna go to the lake again?”, Marzia asked me after breakfast. Oliver still sat at the table, picking apart more pages from his book, and my father had retreated inside the study. I’d been intrigued by Marzia’s attitude all morning; she was happy again; chatting about the neighbors with my parents, complimenting Mafalda’s cooking and even throwing some lines at Oliver, who seemed to be equally bewildered, but responded casually, agreeing here and there. I hadn’t seen her ever since our last encounter, and she wasn’t pleased with me then, demanding a position I wasn’t ready to assume. “I don’t know, not really in the mood to socialize”, I replied, honest. She smiled again. “It’s okay, we can stay here”, she said, sitting in the grass, long hair cascading on her back. I sat beside her, picking at the leaves, feeling like we were kids again and she was scolding me for asking _why don’t girls have peepees?._ I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. We sat in silence for a few moments, and then I noticed her gaze shifting between Oliver and I, her face inscrutable.

-

While the table for dinner was being put, my mother asked me to fetch a book in the study; an old copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , which she liked to read occasionally, reciting passages out loud. I had not seen Oliver the entire day, mostly because I’d been trying to transcribe a particularly hard piece by Camille Saint-Saens, which I discovered whilst scavenging around in my grandfather’s room, now my room. That room had been used by almost every family member, and also by visitors who sometimes were encouraged to stay the night. The piece reminded me of my grandfather, of his scary stories and his breath, tobacco and mint, but also reminded me of the very atmosphere of the room, who belonged to no one and everyone at the same time, so small but littered with memories from lives I would never know.

Strangely, that room held no memories of Oliver, but I guess it makes sense, since I’ve considered him as a piece of my own bedroom since the day he arrived, having fit so perfectly among my books, posters and tapes, as if he’d been there since before I was born, and I was merely returning the room to him, _here, I’m sure you miss it, sorry about the mess._

While approaching the study, I couldn’t help but hear voices inside, had I finally found Oliver? I told myself not to eavesdrop, but wasn’t this my house too, after all? I gently knocked, giving whoever was behind the door the chance to change the subject before entering. Sure enough, Oliver was there, leaning against a chair, holding not a book, but a bunch of letters. My father smiled at me. “Elly-belly, we were just talking about you”.

About me? My mind raced; had Oliver spoken about us? Did my father now know that this man had held not only my heart, but also my cock? My gaze shifted between Oliver and my father, hoping one of them would give me a hint, something to calm my nerves. Sensing my dread, Oliver broke the silence. “We were discussing what piece could you play for us after dinner, but perhaps it’s better if you choose”, he said, eyes revealing nothing, and my dad smiled like a sphynx, all-knowing and ever so graceful. “Come on, Mafalda will scold us if we are late for dinner”. I’m here to pick up a book for mom, I said, and, with that, was left alone in the study. The book sat atop a pile of papers, bruised and battered. Opening the marked page, I read the most prophetical words, which wouldn’t have affected me so had I not spent the entire day thinking about Oliver. _With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable._

Sure enough, before Mafalda put the crostatta on the table, my mother took the book outside, where everyone was gathered, listening to the soft sound of the cicadas, the air dense, heavy with the scent of peaches and lemongrass. “This passage is short, but also very important, for it speaks not only of our relations with others, but with ourselves”. Sometimes I look at my mother and wonder how she can be so gentle, so caring. How did she live, all these years, and the world didn’t rob her of her soul, of her sweetness. I think about her cautionary words, about us being jews of discretion, and wonder how hard must it be for her, to speak these words and still hold her heart intact. In order to live, you also must be able to survive. When she makes sure that everyone is sitting and paying attention, she finally opens the book and speaks. _You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it._

When she said that, Oliver looked at me, small smile on his lips. _Of course he remembers_ , I thought, considering we’ve been discussing something like this just this same morning. He must know, by now, what he does to me.

-

“Do you know how happy I am?”, I asked him, long after dinner was finished. We were in the balcony, our balcony, listening to the noises of the house, Mafalda doing the dishes, my parents having their aperitif in the living room. It was humid, so humid, so warm, a promise of the rain, thunder already announcing its arrival. Oliver reached for my hand while I took the cigarette from his mouth, inhaling once, twice, his gaze everpresent, never leaving mine, as if he couldn’t believe my words, as if I were a miracle, an apparition. “Do you know how happy I am?”, I repeated.

Oliver smiled, squeezed my hand, his fingers soft against my knuckles. He stared at me for a beat, more ethereal than the sun, bronzed, warm, tender. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me”, was what he said. I’ve never seen him so sure, so confident. I remembered my father’s words; Oliver _was_ shy, had been shy this whole time, and now, like a magician opening the curtain, revealing the final trick, I could see through his disguise. His words were my words, because he was the best person I would ever know. My question was merely the trigger for him to open the gates, to display his soul to me the same way he had displayed his body: bare, vulnerable, glowing, perfect.

-

I remember the rain. It was pouring, heavy, when we collapsed on the bed, sweaty and sated. Oliver held my hand and licked my cheek, tasting sweat, come, tears. “Can I open the window? You look like you could use the breeze”. Sure, I said, still breathless, watching him stand against the frame, the room shrouded in darkness, his silhouette like a ghost. He held his hand out, catching raindrops, then stuck his head outside the window, not afraid of the storm, the rain pouring hard against his chest, his face, his open mouth. I envied the rain. How childish of me, fresh from lovemaking and already jealous. These thoughts sometimes took hold of my mind, like a distant uncle who just shows up and starts unpacking without asking permission. But it was true. I wanted to rain down on Oliver, to have him catch me in his mouth, to cover him completely like a cloak, like a blanket, to mold myself around him until it was like I’ve always been there, under his skin.

Oliver came back to bed smiling and wet, droplets of rain clinging to his hair. He laid next to me, already sleepy, eyes closed, covering my hipbone with his large hand. I could count the raindrops stuck on his eyelids, his chest, his erect nipples. Looking at him, I tried not to think again about our remaining time together, counting the days would make his departure more real than I could fathom. But the shadow of doubt was always there. How could I possibly move on, now that I knew the map to the stars? How would I bear to see him go, see our bed become my own bed once again, only to give room to another assistant, some other person who won’t know the crevices of my soul, who won’t call me by his name. In moments like this, I cursed him.

Damn you, Oliver, for now I will forever feel traces of you inside me, feel a tug in my chest everytime someone suggests a hand of poker, feel your feet on top of mine, your toes in my mouth, your breath on my throat whenever this new intern asks about you. “What was my predecessor like?”, they will ask. _Oh, he was alright. Really tall, interested in philosophy, bit of a lame dancer. Also, not so long ago I had his fingers inside my mouth while he gave me the most amazing blowjob right here in this bed. But don’t worry, Mafalda washed the sheets._

_-_

I woke up a bit sweaty, feeling warmth radiating from the bed, and, turning my head, saw Oliver there, like my personal sun, glowing, his golden hair framing the pillow like a halo. “Hi”, he said, sleepy eyes staring at me, burning holes into my heart. His limbs were everywhere, as always, his huge frame splayed against my side, my toes touching his calves, his hand resting on my ass, and I blessed him, wishing and hoping I could wake up to this sight everyday. Blessed him, for even if he weren’t in my bed right now, my bed, his bed, our bed, he would still be with me. In my dreams, in my hands, in the sleepless nights I’ve spent fantasizing about his eyes, his feet, his cock in my mouth, his fingers inside me.

The house would always be his ghost spot, but, then again, so would be my room. My bed. Me. My heart itself would forever be his ghost spot, always waiting, always ready for him to fill the space that would remain vacant, hollow, until he arrived and once again claimed it, like he claimed my parents’ love, the affection of Mafalda, Anchise, Chiara, even Marzia. Like he had claimed my very soul the day he arrived, shirt open, skin everywhere, saying ‘later!’.

“Why are you so happy?”, I asked upon seeing his smile. Once again, my anxiety was threatening to rise, caused by the thought of the not-so-distant future when I would wake up to an empty bed and have only my memories to hold on to. “Looking at you makes me happy”, he said. There was something different about him, ever since yesterday, ever since I caught him chatting with my dad at the study. What could have they said? I’ve never seen him this free, almost light, as if something primal had been awakened inside him, as if now he held the answers to all the questions on the universe. “Well, look while you can, it won’t last forever”, I said, already regretting my words. How could I be so bitter? These were our last moments together and here I was, pushing him away. “I know you’re going to Rome tomorrow”.

Oliver looked at me, his smile faltering. I’d overheard my father suggesting museums and bookstores to Oliver weeks ago, long before I even dreamt of having anything other than fantasies with him. However, as time went by, I also conveniently forgot all about the trip. _You idiot, you knew what you were getting into, and you did it anyway._ “You’re going to Rome and then you’re leaving m- leaving us”, I stared right into his eyes, daring him to deny, daring him to say _come with me then, we can travel through the world together_. I wanted him to just leave already, rip the band-aid at once, and let me cry and suffer in peace, but I also wanted him to never leave.

Never go, Oliver, stay with us forever, inside this perfect summer, between my father’s books, between my bedsheets, stay with me. Or, if you really must leave, take me with you. “Can we talk about this after breakfast?”, he asked, his eyes still glowing. Maybe he really wanted to leave, maybe I was already being inconvenient and he couldn’t wait to get rid of the weird teenager who never seemed to get a clue. He’s gonna tell me _this was fun, but real life calls now, maybe we’ll write each other sometimes, yeah?_

No. No. No, it can’t be true. My brain conjures the wildest thoughts. He said I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He won’t just leave me, right? At least not without a proper goodbye. I felt feverish again, perhaps I was getting ill; best to think about this after breakfast, really. Oliver was right, as always. “Fine, just let me take a shower and we’ll go”, I said, moving towards the bathroom.

-

The cold damascus juice tasted like ashes on my mouth, toast having the same texture as cardboard as I tried to listen silently to my parent’s conversation. My mind felt numb, and I could feel Oliver’s eyes on me across the table, but I was too sad to pretend I was feeling anything but sorrow at the prospect of being left here alone, whimpering into my pillow (that would probably still smell like him) while Oliver went away to Rome. He would meet new people and shake hands with writers and move on with his life and he would forget all about me. I will never be able to read Heraclitus and not think about the cadence of his voice, the way his nose crinkles everytime he can’t pronounce some word, how he would roll his eyes when I said “relisez-le s’il vous plait”. Will I ever see his face again?

I was so deep into my sulking that I barely noticed my father mentioning me, to which Oliver had replied something. “What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes lazily, trying to pretend I had been interested from the start. “I said you must remember to pack your suit, Oliver will probably be invited for dinners and you need to look presentable”.

My face must have showed my deep confusion, because Oliver chuckled lightly as he said: “You’re coming to Rome with me”. My father smiled at Oliver, conspiratorial, as though they hadn’t just dropped a nuclear sized bomb inside my stomach. My entire body felt on fire, all thoughts erased and being slowly replaced with images of Oliver and I strolling around the streets, eating gelato hand in hand, drinking underneath the stars. “If you want to, of course”. _What kind of question was that?_ Didn’t he know I’d follow him to the edge of the earth, had he only ask?

I didn’t try to hide my excitement, running to hug and kiss my father and mother as they cooed at me, already preparing a list of things that I mustn’t forget to buy while we were there ( _the latest edition of The Stranger, a new pair of sunglasses, a box of those straw cigarettes your mom loves_ ). I had so many questions now. How long would we stay? Where would we be staying? And what about the day Oliver had to leave for good?

I pondered whether to hold my thoughts for now, content at the sight of Oliver in front of me, eating his poached egg and trying to appear nonchalant as he eyed me over the edge of his newspaper. _Fuck it, might as well ask him._

“Where will you go after Rome?” I already knew his answer would most likely make me suffer, that I was a masochist who couldn’t allow myself to have five minutes of happiness without bringing my paranoia into the picture.

I felt so greedy, being given a slice of sunshine and already craving for more, wanting the whole sun, like Icarus, knowing fully well I’d burn down. Alas, I waited while Oliver downed his juice, watching the way his throat moved and hoping he would at least have the decency to soften the blow. “I applied to start teaching in Bergamo, so we’ll take the train right back. I won’t be living here forever, as your dad was too kind to offer, but I found a small apartment in B. with a reasonable rent, so I guess you’re stuck with me”.

 _Am I dreaming?_ I had heard almost every iteration of those words inside my head every single day, daydreaming about impossible scenarios that caused Oliver to stay: he was fired from his job in America; he had a terrible accident and would need to recover here before going back; my father asked him to extend his internship so that he could finally finish his research. All of those ideas always had an external force, a catastrophic motivation for him not to leave.

However, I was entirely unprepared for the actual scenario, the one in which he _actively chose to stay._ I couldn’t dare to ask anything else, still in my father’s embrace, but my skin felt too tight, bursting at the seams with tension and brightness. I felt as if the smallest shift in the wind would just sweep me away, drifting through the air. My eyes were brimming with tears but I was too gone to disguise it, and Oliver noticed, too. He just gazed at me, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips, as if saying _why are you so dramatic, you dumb boy?,_ but I couldn’t help it. What is the appropriate response when the universe gives you exactly what you asked for?

-

Later, we were lounging around in the pool, where I spent an increasingly long time holding my breath underwater, my silent tears mixing with the chlorine as I blinked repeatedly. Whenever I rose to the surface, heaving and coughing, Oliver looked up from his manuscript but remained silent, no doubt thinking I was the weirdest boy he’d ever met. Holding my breath helped me get my thoughts in order, organized my train of thought in a way that I never managed to achieve while standing on safe grounds. After the initial joy and elation from the realization that Oliver would stay, so came the dread and terror.

 _What if he gets bored of me?_ Surely, his interest was still fresh because I was a novelty, a summer dream, but what about when the reality sets in, and I have school, and he has work, and he notices I’m boring and clingy? What about the days when I refuse to leave the bed or disappear into the lake with Marzia? Will he give up on me? On us?

All those questions plagued my mind, and staying underwater was a safe way of drowning them, or at least make them silent for a while. I felt like a coward, but my mind always raced against my will at the most inconvenient of times. Finally, I felt myself close to hyperventilating, so I rose to the surface one final time, spluttering water everywhere and fighting to catch my breath. This time, Oliver was standing on the edge, manuscript forgotten, just staring at me. He looked like molten gold, his long legs, open shirt and flowing hair almost being enough to make my eyes water again. He looked like a god, like something _almost too good_ to touch, unattainable, no matter that I still felt sore from having him inside me earlier.

“You know you’re gonna have to leave the pool eventually, right?” He asked, one foot dangling to splash into the water. “You won’t get rid of me that easy”. _But what if you’re the one who wants to get rid of me?_ I thought, and my mind was cruel, but I voiced it nonetheless. “You’re all I can see”, Oliver, beautiful, soft, golden Oliver replied as he smiled at me, and I felt my heart crack open inside my chest.

He reached his hand, motioning for me to leave the pool. I scrunched my nose, just to hear his laughter one more time. “Oliver…” He said, almost reverent, knowing I’d follow him anywhere as long as he kept calling me by his name.

“Elio” I murmured, grabbing his hand as he pulled me out of the pool, and into the future.

**Author's Note:**

> to read my current fic (WTFock fandom) or just scream at/with me, here's my tumblr: https://bowiesmedusa.tumblr.com/


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